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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23332012">Lust | Infatuation's Observation with a Cause</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaDoom/pseuds/JessicaDoom'>JessicaDoom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Seven Shades of Sin [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Dream Sex, Dreams vs. Reality, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Endgame Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Polyjuice Potion, Seven Deadly Sins, Stalking, Versatile Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 05:27:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23332012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaDoom/pseuds/JessicaDoom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Why does this dream have you more rattled than your prior ones?”</i>
</p><p><i>Because it wasn’t </i>just<i> the dream. It was the dream…</i>and<i> the actions Draco had taken to go further than to </i>just<i> dream. But he shrugged, the movement a blatant lie; and delivered a carefully selected half-truth, “It’s starting to take me longer to determine what was real and what was just my imagination.”</i></p><p>Draco Malfoy has been dreaming about Harry Potter for exactly five-hundred and ninety-four days. He has dreamed of Harry Potter in every single position his brain could imagine…but dreams can only satisfy for so long.</p><p><b>Lust</b> — the intense longing or desire, sexual or otherwise, e.g. for money or power.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Seven Shades of Sin [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Seven Shades of Drarry</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Français available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949376">Luxure | Observation d’une passion sans cause</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaDoom/pseuds/JessicaDoom">JessicaDoom</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stella_Diver/pseuds/Stella_Diver">Stella_Diver</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This work is part of the <a href="/series/1677472">Seven Shades of Sin anthology</a>, the first in a series of planned collaborative projects within the <a href="/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry">Seven Shades of Drarry</a> collective.</p><p>There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2emrdGIthVVBwflHmUO4Yo?si=_dQ6V1ITQH-abE_5ChF3lw">here on Spotify</a>; seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>"I see you haven't been sleeping."</p><p>Draco froze, halting his steps towards the couch. He kept his eyes trained to the floor. There was a new scratch in the hard wood — or was it even new? Had he just never noticed it before? He dragged the toe of his boot along its jagged path and breathed in — <em>one, two, three, four, five</em> — holding the air in his lungs until his head cleared of the muck. He pushed a breath out fast and hard before forcing a smile at the woman who waited patiently for him to acknowledge her observation. She would sit there all day if that's what it took. Afterall, they were operating on Draco's coin. Self-consciously, Draco touched the puffed and drooping skin beneath his left eye. He'd crafted this bruise from denying himself a good four nights of sleep. "I'm certain coffee has replaced the blood in my veins by now," he forced past his teeth, raising the paper cup in his other hand.</p><p>The woman, who Draco had been warmly instructed to call Cheryl during their first session only a month previous, wrinkled her brow in genuine worry. She gestured for him to continue his path to the familiar, jarring red couch and relaxed back into her chair across from it. Draco followed the suggestion, the weariness settling into his bones as he felt the comfort of the cushions beneath him.</p><p>"Did something happen since we met last week?" Cheryl asked gently, seemingly taking literal notes of how he jiggled his leg to keep awake.</p><p>"Nothing in particular <em>happened</em>," Draco lied. Draco lied a lot during their sessions. It was counterintuitive to their purpose of meeting, but there were things he just couldn't share with her. With <em>anyone</em>. There were internal battles he had to wage on his own. He was only here, seeing this therapist, to appease his mother. To work through his "issues" and become the son she "used to have". As if a war didn't just end less than two years previous, leaving every single person in their world fucked in the head in some way or another. "Nothing happened," Draco repeated in an attempt to convince himself. "I just…." Draco pushed the frustration from his taught nerves out on a sigh. "I needed a break from the dreams."</p><p>Cheryl nodded as if everything made perfect sense to her. "The erotic dreams?"</p><p>She always spoke of Draco's problem of the week in plain terms which made them sound so easy. She made them out to be merely a crack in the sidewalk to be stepped over rather than the natural disaster wiping away Draco's very self.</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>…those."</p><p>"Can you describe for me the last one you had? Perhaps you wrote it down this time, as I suggested?"</p><p>Draco set his cup on the coffee table between them and pulled the small journal from the pocket of his peacoat. He found the entry easily, having obsessed over it enough in the past week to have worn a crease into the binding. Draco never actually had a problem remembering the dreams. He could recall most details with vivid clarity. But he indulged Cheryl's request to put them on paper because it was easier than explaining to her that he had been holding back from the one person who wanted to help him work through them. "I did write it down," he mumbled, extending the book out over the table.</p><p>Instantly, Cheryl put up her hand in a "stop" motion and shook her head. "It really would make more sense to me if you could describe it for me in your own words. This is your private space and I do not wish to infringe upon it in such a way."</p><p>His alabaster cheeks filling with blood, Draco recoiled and scanned the words again. "You told me writing them down would help," he started, pulling in another long breath. The oxygen around him felt thin which was a sure sign he was on the edge of cracking. Minutes away from a breakdown or a panic attack or full, complete shutdown. "It hasn't helped. I write them down and then they're…they're <em>there</em>, so I read them and read them and obsess over them. And then they repeat night after night…. They're worse, Cheryl. They're getting worse. They're becoming more vivid. And <em>now </em>you want me to read them to you so I can think about them some more?"</p><p>A sympathetic look can only go such a distance to seal cracks in a person's psyche. Cheryl could look as serene and soft as she wanted, but in the end it didn't help. It didn't keep the hyperventilation from sneaking up on him and it didn't stop his mind from racing with the very images he wanted to <em>want</em> to forget.</p><p>"Breathe," she reminded him. "Remember, five seconds in and five seconds out."</p><p>Her words were calming, but all Draco wanted in that moment was a touch. He just wanted to be <em>held</em>. He wanted someone to touch him and to love him in ways he had never known before. His limbs quaked, craving warmth. His heart ached, craving stillness.</p><p>Draco did as he was instructed, breathing in and out and in and out until his pulse began to slow. Until his head began to clear. Until he once again felt himself and in control. Embarrassment replacing the panic, Draco grabbed for his coffee and chugged down what remained just to keep himself busy. It wasn't as if the caffeine was actually doing anything at this point. It was just serving to make him feel buzzy and on edge. It was a bandage to the root of a persistent problem.</p><p>"Why does this dream have you more rattled than your prior ones?" Cheryl asked once she could see Draco had found his composure.</p><p>Because it wasn't <em>just</em> the dream. It was the dream…<em>and</em> the actions Draco had taken to go further than to <em>just</em> dream. But he shrugged, the movement a blatant lie; and he told her what she wanted to hear, a carefully selected half-truth, "It's starting to take me longer to determine what was real and what was just my imagination."</p><p>"I know I've said this before," Cheryl prefaced, and Draco had to bite his tongue to keep from rolling his eyes because he could quote word-for-word what she was about to say, "but I think that blurred line is feeding off your magic. It feels very much like the type of accidental magic often triggered in untrained young witches and wizards by strong emotions. So…subconsciously, you may be focusing and focusing and focusing on whatever it is you aren't getting in your day-to-day life from these dreams, right? And then you go to sleep at night and want them to be real…so they seem that way to you as if to appease you, perhaps?"</p><p>In plain terms, this meant that at Draco's very root, he was very broken. Something was missing and his magic — his very core — was supplicating with fantasies he could never fulfill. Draco nodded, helpless but to agree with her professional opinion.</p><p>"Draco…please share with me your last dream in as much or as little detail as you would like. It's uncomfortable, I know, but I do believe tricks like writing them down and sharing them aloud can help to alleviate the obsession even just a small amount."</p><p>Draco didn't need to read the words on the page before him, but it helped to have something to focus on besides his own quavering voice.</p><p>~*~</p><p>
  <em>It started with the Room of Requirement. With the Fiendfyre and the death-defying and the taut muscles beneath his shaking fingers. In that moment, with the adrenaline pulsing through every nerve, he had never been more sure of anything in his life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Draco would give his birthright to the Malfoy fortune and legacy for just one chance to be on the back of that broom again, clutching to this man for dear life. To feel his warm skin buzz with fear against his own. To know his gentle touch as well as his rushed and heavy hold. He spent too many nights lost in this particular nightmare. In this particular moment, surrounded and consumed by flame.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And the next moment was always the same, fueled by vivid memory and unhealed wounds. They touched down on solid ground outside of the room, safe for the moment. Malfoy mourned for the loss of his friend, clinging to the one he had left. Too blinded by that loss to see that they had rightfully earned such pain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Draco knew the beginning so well, he could have painted a picture of every scene. He knew what to expect because he had lived it. It was what followed which usually changed from night-to-night. Oftentimes, the setting would shift completely and Draco would find himself somewhere so far removed it could shake him awake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This time, however, nothing changed. That didn't happen too often. They weren't suddenly whisked away to a white sand beach or the back row of a Parisian theatre. In this dream, this particular and frustrating dream which had felt so real, they stayed in that hall just outside the Room of Requirement. The walls around them still shook with the violence of battle. All Draco could hear were screams and all he could feel was grief. From that day forward, nothing would ever be the same. This weighed just as heavily upon him in this supposed fantasy as it had that day.</em>
</p><p><em>The only difference between them being…he wasn't about to process any of that alone this time. There were fingers slipping between his and there was a soft voice telling him he was okay. He was safe. He wasn't </em>alone <em>and he had this strong shoulder to cry on.</em></p><p>
  <em>Without hesitation, Draco allowed those steady hands to pull him to his feet. This was what he wanted! He wanted to be in someone's arms and he wanted that someone to be this man. But he wanted more than just that present, gentle hold.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wanted everything.</em>
</p><p><em>He initiated the contact. He </em>always<em> initiated. It was always his hands down this man's trousers and it was always a surprise to them both. A surprise which half of the time seemed welcome by the way he could bring the man to gasping life and the other half…. Well, those versions of the dream never lasted long. After all, a person usually wakes up once they've died in a dream.</em></p><p>"<em>Draco…." His name — his </em>first <em>name, his given name, the name which only passed the lips of those who </em>cared<em> — on this particular man's lips was the most heavenly sound. He could have come right then and there without stimulation merely from hearing his name said so breathlessly.</em></p><p>"<em>Say it again," Draco begged. His back hit the wall which rumbled from the spells cast by both sides, keeping him aware of where they were. As if he could ever forget. The literal man of his dreams shook, too. He shook with laughter and he shook with need and he shook because his skin just could not contain the conflict inside of him.</em></p><p>
  <em>He didn't hear his name again. The screams of those who died and those who mourned replaced whatever words might have passed those lips. They filled his head and made it difficult to see anything but blood or murder. "I need you to make me feel again." Draco slammed his eyes shut in a fruitless effort to halt the world around them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the darkness, every sensation felt ten-times more electric. The scrape of battle-torn nails down his suddenly bare chest. The perfectly rough pawing at his hips and down his pelvis. There were teeth on his neck, biting a line of bruises to the sharp jut of his collarbone. He was being fully and wholly claimed one body part at a time. Lip between teeth, nipple under tongue, cock taken deepdeepdeep against back of throat.</em>
</p><p>"<em>You're the only one," Draco gasped and he meant it and he </em>hated <em>himself more than he ever had.</em></p><p>~*~</p><p>"I think that's what woke me up," Draco whispered, ashamed to admit any of this aloud when he was hardly ready to admit it to himself. "Hearing myself say…that…."</p><p>Cheryl nodded slowly, her gaze trained on her paper as her quill worked furiously to capture the heavy weight of Draco's confession. "So…," she processed. Her eyes flicked quickly up to the clock on the wall above her client's head before settling back upon her quick scrawl. Draco's knee bounced even more vigorously as the seconds passed in that expectant silence. "Done, sorry," Cheryl said with that same, soft smile she always wore as she finally set down her notepad. "<em>So</em>, Draco, I really want to unpack all of this. The settings of these dreams <em>—</em> this one in particular, since you noted it was different <em>—</em> as well as the eroticism. However, I think we will have to focus on this in our next session. We appear to be nearly out of time. For the moment, let's try to get through to the heart of this.</p><p>"Do you always dream of the same person?"</p><p>"Yes…."</p><p>"And are they…. Are you close to this person you dream of?"</p><p>"Certainly not."</p><p>"Your frustration is beginning to make more sense to me." Cheryl sighed, the gears working behind her eyes before she could speak again. "First of all, I want to thank you for sharing with me. I commend your bravery <em>—</em> I know none of this is easy. Second<em>—</em> And I don't want you to answer me now, okay?" She waited for Draco's hesitant nod before continuing. "Second, I want you to come prepared to answer this question next week: What is it exactly that you want this person, this solitary person, to make you feel?"</p><p>With his "homework" in mind, adding to the already muddled mess and making him woozy, Draco left the office for another week. He left and went about life as was expected. As if he had never been there in the first place. His seeking therapy wasn't exactly a secret amongst those who knew him, however it was expected for him not to speak of it. They, most especially his mother, wanted him better. But they did not want to hear about his progress or even what his problems may be. They wanted him to skip right over the whole thing and "become himself" once more.</p><p>They wanted the boy they knew before the war to suddenly wake up in his bed, whole and unscarred.</p><p>They wanted a ghost who was never going to find his way back home.</p><p>Draco managed through the rest of his day on no less than ten shots of espresso and two Invigoration Draughts. By the time the sun was setting, he knew he was going to crash. It was inevitable. At this point, there was only the matter of where it was going to happen <em>—</em> safe at home in his bed or….</p><p>"You're going out?" Narcissa sounded so concerned. She even managed an expression which almost matched. If only she could find a way to force genuineness into her eyes.</p><p>Draco smiled softly and bit back yet another yawn. "Just for a bit, Mother." He cradled the back of her head as he kissed her cheek goodbye.</p><p>When his mother frowned, her wrinkles betrayed her age. "Please don't make it too late," she whispered, veiling the words she wanted to say <em>—</em> <em>"Please come sleep in your own bed tonight."</em></p><p>When the dreams first came to Draco, back in the beginning when he thought them almost laughable, he had tried to cure them with company. It seemed the only logical solution <em>—</em> fuck someone else. So he would go out, hair slicked and smelling of expense. Cocksure and dripping with wealth. His confident stride easily attracted all eyes <em>—</em> men, women, whatever. It didn't matter back then. Draco could find satisfaction in a perfectly slick pussy or in feeling deliriously full. Since it was all momentary, anyway, why should it matter where he was finding his pleasure? He ended up feeling the same after all of the encounters, regardless <em>—</em> empty.</p><p>Draco would go out and he wouldn't come back until the next morning. He would strut up to the breakfast table in those same, sweaty clothes his parents had seen him leave in <em>—</em> wearing the suckled bruises on his neck or ache in his backside like a badge of honor. <em>Proud</em> to have conquered not only his subconscious for the night but also a person who found him palatable enough to spend a night with.</p><p>Even still, Draco found himself waking in a cold sweat the very next morning, <em>that name</em> still clinging to his lips like a promise and a prayer. He was infected with a sickness which couldn't be soothed, no matter how many people he had laid himself bare for.</p><p>Since overindulgence hadn't worked, Draco had settled instead for merely not sleeping. It was easier.</p><p>It was easier not to dream.</p><p>It was easier not to <em>want</em>.</p><p>It was easier not to fall prey to the hope which flourishes in that moment between asleep and awake. When everything seems so vivid and so real. When Draco could still feel the kindest lips upon his own. When the words clogging his mind were only his own pathetic fantasy.</p><p>Not knowing any better, Narcissa still thought he went prowling on these nights he didn't come home. He could never fathom correcting her with the truth. "I promise to be home in a few hours. There's just something I need to take care of."</p><p>It felt like all Draco did was lie these days. He lied to his therapist, which defeated the point of seeking help. He lied to his mother, who really probably did care for his mental stability. He lied to the reclamation board about finding purpose and solace in the mandated community service. He now lied to the men and women who tried to pick him up at the bars and cafés about having a husband or a wife waiting for him at home. He lied to everyone about everything possible because it was <em>easy </em>not to feel the guilt and shame any more than he already had to.</p><p>Guilt and shame <em>—</em> that was the root of it. Of all of it. Draco didn't need to fess up to Cheryl in order for her to tell him what he already knew. Not when he could feel those perfectly matched tumors nestled deep in his chest already. Not when he had already been carrying the weight of them since he was merely a boy.</p><p>The weight of his twinned sins had bred something entirely new since the day which ended the war. Draco had long since resigned to label this new and spreading cancer inside of him as deep-seated lust. Lust in the sexual, perverse definition, of course. But also lust for life and for normalcy and for something and <em>someone</em>. Lust for the reassurance of a consistently warm bed. Lust for somewhere to call home. Lust for stability and wholeness.</p><p>And, yes, lust as in <em>lust</em>. As in a psychological need to be (ful)filled by the most basic and carnal act of sex with another red-blooded human being.</p><p>But not just any human being. The one human being who was almost the antithesis of Draco in that he had saved just as many lives as Draco had likely tried to destroy.</p><p>Draco Malfoy had been dreaming about Harry Potter for exactly five-hundred and ninety-four days. He had dreamed of Harry Potter sucking his cock. He had dreamed of Harry Potter fucking him over Albus Dumbledore's grave. He had dreamed of riding Harry Potter to a swift and messy orgasm. He had dreamed of teasing Harry Potter to the edge and back again for hours upon hours of the sweetest delayed pleasure ever experienced. He had dreamed of Harry Potter in every single position his brain could imagine <em>—</em> top, bottom, orgy, masturbation.</p><p>But dreams could only satisfy for so long.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry Fucking Potter was simultaneously the easiest and most difficult person to track. He was always in the public eye and that made physically following him difficult. But, since he was always in the public eye, it was much easier to follow his whereabouts as everyone and their dog wanted to know where he was and what he was doing at all times. Rita Skeeter had even started an in-moment tabloid-style letter business specifically because of this phenomenon. Her last reported numbers boasted eight-hundred subscriptions to her newest invasion of privacy.</p><p>Despite this, Potter usually went about his day as usual. He went to work and he went out with friends. He pretended not to notice a significant rise in the population of any area he happened to be in. He was a good sport. He was a good guy. That was why people followed him so closely, wasn't it? He was just so <em>good</em> and they wanted to bask in his greatness for even just a single second.</p><p>Draco knew he was guilty of this, too. He, just like all those other losers, shelled out six Sickles per update to receive those owls. When a day passed without one, he found himself lost. It was on those days that he could really recognise just how obsessed he had become. He was constantly scouting the air for a chance glimpse of a pair of wings. He would get irritated when he saw nothing. He would snap. He would troll outside of the places he knew Potter was likely to hang out.</p><p>And, often, he would find a quiet corner and attempt to relive the dreams he had denied himself the night before. Sometimes alone, sometimes with any warm body willing to play along.</p><p>It was a horrible way to exist and Draco hated himself somewhere under the compulsion of it all.</p><p>A feeling only made worse once Potter started dating.</p><p>Now, it wasn't as if Potter hadn't been dating at all since the end of the war. He had very openly been with the Weasley girl <em>—</em> happy and in love! She was young and still attending Hogwarts, but she could still be found spending the night at Potter's place in London over breaks during that first year. It was a scandal, but an innocent one. One the public was easily willing to forgive when pictures of the two of them holding hands while strolling down Diagon Alley hit the papers.</p><p>The public could not so easily forgive what followed their eventual breakup. The instant the Weasley girl announced her hard-won position with the Holyhead Harpies, the pair was over. And that was the final straw Draco needed to focus less on who he bedded and more on who Potter was spending his nights with.</p><p>It started with a woman here and there. Socially acceptable women who had actively sided with the right side of the war. Women who were just as saintly as he was and who would promote his image only in the best way possible.</p><p><em>Boring</em> women.</p><p>Followed by one very boring man.</p><p>The announcement came the old-fashioned way <em>—</em> Rita Skeeter developed her instant updates mere weeks later. Draco was sitting at the breakfast table, buttering toast and fully immersed in the particularly vivid dream he'd only just awoken from. He'd denied himself the release his body had desperately craved that morning, too shaken by what he wanted to be comfortable enough to allow even a fraction of the pleasure it would bring him. His fingers trembled and his body ached with longing and then, suddenly, there Potter's face was <em>—</em> indelicately dropped in front of him by the family owl.</p><p>Potter was fucking <em>beaming</em>, obviously not aware yet of being caught. His hands were on the rounded hips of someone who was very much <em>man</em>. They were both laughing, the moving picture stuck in a loop of their happiness. Draco scanned the headline, too aware of the two leaning in for a kiss from the corner of his eye.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Step Aside, Ladies! Potter's Moved on to Men?!</strong> </em>
</p><p>It was too much and Draco was sure he could still feel the ghost of Potter's breath on his hip and…why couldn't he breathe?</p><p>Before his parents could see, Draco excused himself. He grabbed the newspaper and ran to his room, literally throwing himself down onto the bed while pushing a scream into the mattress.</p><p>Potter was dating men. Or, at the very least, he was kissing them under streetlights in Islington. And, if he was kissing a man outside of his home, he was likely inviting him inside. Why wouldn't he? Why would he allow a man to go through the trouble of walking him home if he wasn't at least going to ask him in for a nightcap? Especially when he had never been so chaste with any of his female suitors.</p><p>Before he had even dared to look, Draco was already aware of how he would feel about the man Potter was kissing. Finding out the identity to those lips was only bound to make those feelings worse. Not that he had any right to. He hadn't so much as <em>talked</em> to Potter since his trial when he thanked him for speaking up in favor of the Malfoys being acquitted of their war crimes. He hadn't pursued the way his dreams made him feel. There was absolutely no justification to the jealousy and anger and betrayal coursing through his veins.</p><p>There was no justification for what he did to ruin any chance Potter had at happiness.</p><p>Ernie Macmillan could have been the one for Harry Potter. Potter said so himself to any interviewer who dared ask him in the first couple of months after their break-up. Ernie had been a vocal supporter of Potter since they were sixteen. He bravely fought at the Battle of Hogwarts (on the correct side, of course). He was a Hufflepuff <em>—</em> soft and sweet and <em>kind</em>. He was perfect for Harry Potter right down to his squeezably thick center. But they never had the chance to try and be anything but new. They never had the chance to discover what a happy ending might be for the two of them.</p><p>Draco ruined it before they had the chance.</p><p>It was almost too easy. He hadn't even had to try that hard.</p><p>He started by purchasing Polyjuice Potion off a black market dealer in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley. From there, it was only a matter of finding the perfect subject to mimic. He found that while queueing at a food cart. (Not that he was there to actually order <em>—</em> he abruptly walked away the instant he had the strands of hair between his fingers.) The face he wore for the night balanced that line of handsome and yet still approachable <em>—</em> just like Potter. It catered to a certain <em>type</em>. Last and most importantly, he settled himself into a barstool at the pub Macmillan frequented with his friends when Potter was unavailable for one reason or another.</p><p>And then he waited.</p><p>Macmillan did the rest of the work for him. All he had needed was a little nudge.</p><p>Once Macmillan inevitably approached him, all Draco had to do was lay on some flirting and he was in.</p><p>Boy was he <em>in</em>.</p><p>All he had aimed for was to be seen by someone who could snap a picture. He had planned on it ending after a kiss or a suggestive touch. Just enough to stir the rumour mill. Just enough to get people talking and to effectively break the trust between Potter and his newest plaything.</p><p>Ernie Macmillan was not meant to end up naked beside Draco on a shitty hotel room floor. Not even if Draco was parading around as his crafted persona of "Clark" who advocated for equal rights and wrote strongly worded political letters. Not even if Draco was acting exactly the opposite of himself. Not even if Draco knew this was the only concrete way to ensure Potter would have no choice but to end things. Not even if Draco might have enjoyed it even just a small fraction, because <em>fuck</em>…he could see why Potter had wanted this man.</p><p>If Ernie Macmillan were truly the good guy Potter wanted him to be, he wouldn't have cheated.</p><p>If Ernie Macmillan were truly the good guy, he wouldn't have broken Potter's heart.</p><p>He would have strayed eventually whether Draco intervened or not. It was inevitable. Draco merely sped up the process to get him out of the way. As a courtesy just as much as for selfish gain.</p><p>That next morning, Draco awoke with strangely heavy guilt settled into his stomach, momentarily replacing the usual hunger. The photo of the two of them <em>—</em> Draco very much not himself and Macmillan all-too-recognisable after his couple of months in the spotlight <em>—</em> spread like a virus. Scandal always sold well and travelled fast upon the lips of those who needed the validation which came with its shock.</p><p>After their publicly nasty break-up <em>—</em> Potter, being ballsy, confronted Macmillan in the middle of the Ministry atrium the morning the news broke <em>—</em> Draco nearly convinced himself to take advantage of the opening he'd made. After all, wasn't that the purpose of ending things between them? To give Draco an opportunity now that it seemed he might actually have a shot?</p><p>Draco Malfoy never was adept at doing what was good for him. Nor had he ever actually pursued something he thought he actually deserved. He was a coward.</p><p>He found it easier to keep hiding in the shadows, putting on other people's faces, watching and following. It felt good to be angry and obsessed over something again, even if he couldn't reconcile that satisfaction with his guilt and his shame. This manic need to know and to hide was like home to him. He craved <em>more</em>, but could find momentary satisfaction in the knowing.</p><p>Not that any of it felt much like solace. Draco didn't sleep. He hardly consumed anything but coffee and alcohol. He spent every moment <em>—</em> waking and asleep <em>—</em> obsessing and frantic. He was achieving next to nothing in life, small-stepping through the bare minimum.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Draco lifted his empty tumbler and shook the ice in order to catch the bartender's attention. The man nodded back to him, smiling gently. Draco wore kind eyes today. Kind blue eyes and simple medium-length chestnut hair. He looked approachable and hated himself for it. When he chose his likenesses, he tried to go for men (and sometimes women) who could blend. Who were plain and who could be easily passed over. He didn't like to draw attention to himself because that wasn't what he was there for <em>—</em> wherever there happened to be that night.</p><p>On this particular night, "there" was a basement-level dive bar whose walls shook with loud music well into the early morning. Draco's momentary softness stood out in such a place…just as it had a week previous.</p><p>This was the first time Draco had used the same face twice and his skin crawled from the danger of it. But the danger of being caught was why he had done it. He wanted to be recognised. He wanted interaction. It was different than how he had ever approached those nights out. And it certainly was risky to hope the measly amount of Polyjuice he had been able to scrape out of his vial from a week previous would last him through the night.</p><p>But he was desperate, and desperate people are known to make terrible decisions.</p><p>"Hi."</p><p>A chill of ghostly remembrance settled along Draco's spine. He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, but the memory only haunted him more vividly in the darkness. "Hi," he whispered back, the sound swallowed up by the bass of the music. He took measured breaths <em>—</em> <em>in two three…out two three…</em> — before finally turning and looking up.</p><p>Just as Rita Skeeter's perfectly mapped out pattern had predicted, Harry Potter was standing at that particular bar at exactly nine-thirteen at night. He was about to order the bartender's favorite ale alongside "a shot of anything strong". As habit suggested, he would leave the bar in a couple of hours with some adoring fan on his arm. They might Apparate to his home from a safe alleyway or they might just go for a late dinner date. The ending was never quite the same, but the beginning of it all seemed to be.</p><p>If he found someone else tonight and decided they were worth more than an evening, he might not come back to this bar for quite some time.</p><p>Draco simply couldn't let this happen. Not after last week.</p><p>Not that last week was supposed to have even happened in the first place. It was a fluke. A lovely, horrible fluke.</p><p>That night had been reminiscent of a dream. No, that wasn't the correct word choice. It <em>was</em> his dream <em>—</em> real and true and come to life. He could still feel fingers bruising into his hips. He could feel the wall shaking at his back, his head clogged with screams of pleasure and of phantom pain. He could feel the wrongness of it all settled into the pit of his stomach.</p><p>He had finally achieved the one thing he had pined after for too many months. But it was all wrong. It wasn't his face, wasn't his body, wasn't his pleasure to experience.</p><p>He hadn't slept in four-going-on-five nights, afraid he would experience it all over again and again. Just as helpless to stop it this time as he had been a week ago.</p><p>But still, here he was. Potter was standing over him with that same hunger in his eyes. And Draco was still wearing someone else's body.</p><p>"Are you stalking me?"</p><p>It was a joke, but Draco felt the greasiness of shame settle into his belly nonetheless. He forced a smile, thankful for the distraction of the bartender sliding him a fresh drink. He gulped half of it down as much for courage as for a way of buying himself more time to think of a smooth response. A response that didn't sound like it came from a man guilty of actually doing such a thing. "What if I was?" he came up with, hating the way the words felt thick like admission on his tongue.</p><p>Maybe Potter knew, maybe he didn't. He wasn't letting on either way. Who knew he had it in him to be mysterious or coy? He merely took the stool beside Draco, relaying his usual order to the bartender while settling the palm of his left hand against the inner flesh of Draco's thigh.</p><p>Draco was helpless but to hiss in a breath, fingers going tight around his glass. He wasn't himself in that moment. He wasn't stoic or put-together or refined. He was a man with everything to lose, desperate to give it away for one. More. Touch. With his last ounce of restraint, Draco parted his legs only a fraction. Just enough to show Potter he craved more, but not enough to completely debase himself for it.</p><p>He'd already done enough of that on their last encounter.</p><p>"Can I admit something?"</p><p>"Anything…," Draco said, knowing he meant it with every fiber of his being.</p><p>"I…had quite a lot to drink last weekend. I tend to do that sometimes…." Potter caught himself, burying the vulnerability he'd been about to display like it was never even there. "I don't remember your name."</p><p>Draco felt his cheeks flush and hoped this stranger's face hid the redness better than his own could. This felt very much like he'd been caught. And if he couldn't remember the name he'd given, well that might actually mean he <em>was</em>. "Did I give it?" he breathed, leaning in closer to be heard without having to change his tone. If he spoke any louder, the nerves would have shaken his voice.</p><p>By some miracle, Potter laughed. "Are you saying I'm the type of person to suck a bloke off in the bathroom without first learning his name?"</p><p>He said it so plainly, like it didn't even matter. Like it was just a thing he had done. Draco choked on his whisky, far too aware of the incremental inch that hand slid further up his leg. He didn't respond because he didn't know how. He didn't move because…what if that hand fell away? So he continued to sit, staring down at the bar, hoping the world would be gracious and just swallow him up already.</p><p>"For the record," Potter continued, still thinking this was all a fun game, "I might be. But I do still think you told me your name first. Either way…help me out?"</p><p>Draco didn't have the luxury of ruminating and remembering. It wasn't as if he could pretend he had forgotten his own name. So he bit his lip, hoping he appeared just as coy and just as cunning, and threw out a name he hoped he remembered correctly. It was the one he used most often as it was similar to his own and therefore easier to remember.</p><p>"Derek."</p><p>Potter's grin was reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat — slow and knowing with maybe a glimpse of malice. "Derek…. That's right. How could I ever have forgotten?"</p><p>"You've had so many. It's perfectly understandable if you would forget one of their names now and then."</p><p>"Are you keeping track of them all, then?"</p><p>Draco froze. His heart, his breath, his body. He froze and he assessed those words. There was no way Potter knew…right? There was no way he had seen through all of those faces Draco had used. He had been so careful. He was sure of it. Slowly, he thawed and gulped. Physically gulped. Still his tongue refused to work and the words refused to come. He wasn't smooth enough for this, despite how confident he pretended to be.</p><p>He wasn't ready for this….</p><p>"I would expect nothing less from my stalker," Potter continued. He must not have noticed the way Draco stilled. "And I am curious to know how many there have been. I don't keep track myself. Do you know the number, <em>Derek</em>?"</p><p>Draco might have known the number of people Potter had taken home, but he wasn't about to admit that. That would take this conversation from playful to creepy all-too-fast. "I think I would prefer to focus on just one," he muttered, looking up through his eyelashes. It was a seductive look he had mastered while wearing his own more delicate face.</p><p>The effect with the face he wore now, however, was clearly not as strong. Potter's widening grin clearly spoke to this, as did his low and pitying laugh. "I think I would, too," Potter said gently, soothing the flare of hurt in Draco's belly just enough. "As long as that <em>one…</em>isn't going to run off on me again."</p><p>
  <em>It was too much. Too much too fast. The wall shook against Draco's back. His ears were filled with indiscernible noise — he knew it was music and the bustle of people, but it could just as easily have been the chaos of war to his clouded mind. And to make matters worse, he could feel the pull of his body returning. In a matter of minutes, he would be exposed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>More than he currently already was in that unlockable bathroom where literally anyone could walk in….</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Panic settled in Draco's breath. He was coming down from the high of his orgasm too fast for his taste. Hastily, he pulled his trousers up and mumbled an apology. He could feel the frown on Potter's lips just as vividly as he could taste himself upon them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The potion ran its course, revealing Draco's face just as he'd made it safely outside and into an alleyway. The tears trekking down his cheeks were truly his own.</em>
</p><p>It felt like Draco had shattered that night. He'd been carrying around that desire for so long and when he finally made it a reality…it literally broke him.</p><p>It had too suddenly become too real.</p><p>He hadn't slept since. How could he when he knew sleep brought the dreams? And how could he even compare those dreams to the actual reality he'd experienced? When he'd had the real thing, how could the dreams ever again be enough?</p><p>Ultimately, he supposed, that was why he had ended up at that bar again. He had tasted the poisoned fruit and he wanted more, even if it may truly be the end of him.</p><p>"I panicked," was the only answer Draco could give. He just hoped it would be enough.</p><p>"It was…a very different response than what I'm used to. Still, I'm glad to see you again tonight."</p><p>Draco raised his head from its shameful hang. "You are?"</p><p>"Yeah, I wanted a second shot."</p><p>Typical. It was just absolutely bloody typical that Draco Malfoy would do something terrible to Harry Potter and still be forgiven. Not that Potter knew it was him, but still. The man was too trusting. He was too soft. How was he still <em>alive</em>?</p><p>It took every ounce of concentration Draco had at that point not to sneer back at him. He calmly reached for his glass, sipped the last bit of liquid, and stood. Calm as those dangerous moments before a storm.</p><p>"What are we waiting for, then?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Part Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Potter followed Draco with a grin too wide to conceal, throwing down more than enough Galleons to cover both of their drinks for the night. He was excited, his hands settling on Draco's hips before they were even out the door. "Yours or mine?" he whispered once they were outside. His breath tickled the back of Draco's neck, a reaction which seemed to excite him evident by the way he chuckled and pressed kisses along Draco's hairline.</p><p>Draco was so lucky and yet so incredibly screwed. This wasn't his body and he had found a connection in Knockturn Alley who crafted his Polyjuice brews to last longer but that still only bought him eight hours at best. He was operating at that moment on a partial dosage. There was no way of knowing how long he truly had.</p><p>He would just have to make this quick. "Yours," he said, turning to face Potter. "My…<em>roommates </em>don't like it when I bring people back."</p><p>"My gain," Potter crooned, sucking the beginnings of bruises into Draco's neck. It would be interesting to see if those remained on his skin once the potion wore off. "If you hold still a second, we can side-along to my stoop."</p><p>Before Draco had a moment to stop and think about how Apparition affected a body which wasn't one's own, he was being pulled through the squeezing confines of the space between here and there. His feet landed hard upon stone, his knees buckling and vaulting him closer to Potter. "Careful," he was cautioned even as Potter seemed to embrace the proximity.</p><p>Potter's house on Grimmauld Place existed in its own private corner of the world. Draco knew from his mother that it was a residence passed down through the Black family, rendered Unplottable and guarded with every security measure known possible. Potter had acquired it following the passing of his godfather (even though it rightfully should have reverted back to the Black family name…) and had occupied it since the end of the war.</p><p>Stepping through the front hallway, it seemed occupying it was all Potter had done. The hallway appeared to be dressed in the most antiquated of Black family fashion. It was all gas lamps and brass chandeliers, the walls lined with empty portraits (likely abandoned once the residents resigned themselves to understanding their family would never occupy this house again) and the fixtures wrapped in serpents. There was nothing of Potter to be seen in any of the décor, a fact which weirdly set Draco on edge. He hadn't really been expecting to walk through halls filled by the ghost of his ancestry.</p><p>"This is…cozy," Draco forced past his teeth as Potter led him by linked fingers to a set of stairs.</p><p>"It's a place to live," Potter replied with a shrug and pulled him upwards. "I don't use most of the rooms and have no idea how to even go about replacing the decorations with my own. But I have a bed and I have a kitchen, so it works."</p><p>The good Pure-blood in Draco shuddered at the idea of seeing such history replaced by something distasteful from a shop full of mass productions. The other half of him wished he could see Potter in every corner he looked. He wanted to be able to bask in him, fully immersed in a world he had crafted.</p><p>A wish granted in brilliant clarity the moment they finally reached the fourth landing and stepped through the furthermost door. It was like being thrown into the Gryffindor common room, he imagined. Although the bones of the room were much the same as the rest of the house, complete with a high mahogany headboard and wallpaper which matched the other walls he'd seen, every discernable inch was covered in the debris of a young man. A bachelor still stuck in his school days, clinging to days of grit and glory. A Gryffindor banner, too dusty and tattered to be Potter's own, hung proudly upon the farther wall. Surrounding it were tacked-up pictures of smiling teenagers and long-passed friends. It was a wall solemnly and irreverently dedicated to memoriam.</p><p>The rest of the room was filled with Quidditch memorabilia, strewn clothing, used dishes, old textbooks, and empty Ogden's bottles. It was as if he had only allowed himself to exist in this one room for two years and never bothered to clean up after himself. It should have been revolting. Draco found it oddly charming.</p><p>Harry Potter was human, after all.</p><p>Draco only had but a moment to take all of this in before he was literally thrown back against the door. They were the only ones in the house, but somehow the fact that what they were about to do existed behind a closed door felt comforting. Even if the back of his head did ache from the impact. "Ouch?" he said with a raised brow, which must have come across as sweet and genuine on that face instead of sarcastic upon his own.</p><p>"Sorry, I got excited," Potter soothed, fingertips skirting through Draco's hair. "I'll make it up to you."</p><p>In the next moment, Draco was overtaken by the most passionate and breathtaking kiss he'd ever experienced. So <em>this </em>was what it was like to kiss Harry Potter. How could he ever have hoped to go without feeling this?</p><p>Potter tasted of tequila and toothpaste. He smelt of man, all drenched in generic forest-scented deodorant mixed with the kind of sweat which only comes from hard, physical labor. Nothing about him was particularly unique right down to his plain grey t-shirt and well-worn trainers, but in that moment he was perfect. He was the stars lining up to finally throw Draco a fucking bone for once.</p><p>And, most importantly, he was real.</p><p>Even though it felt like an invisible clock was ticking in Draco's chest, he gave himself permission to enjoy this. It wasn't ever going to happen again, so he might as well get as much out of it as he could. He intended to map out every inch of this man's body with both fingertip and tongue. He intended to be able to remember every single centimeter during those lonely nights to come.</p><p>He would start with Potter's hips. They had a soft curve, just enough to give cushion to the palms pressing against his hipbones. He pulled in a sharp breath the first time Draco's thumbs caressed the skin just below his pants. Draco savoured the way his eyes glazed over in just that one second. For that brief moment, he had looked like a man who had never been touched before. He looked like every sensation Draco was providing for him was new and exciting. He looked soft and pliable and Draco found he'd never wanted Potter more. Which, truly, should have been impossible given the number of times his subconscious had forced him to think about it.</p><p>His hands circled around to Potter's back where his spine bubbled up just barely against his skin. Draco traced the ring of every vertebra, two at a time, pressing deftly into the divots between each one until he reached the nape of Potter's neck.</p><p>"What, are you checking me for scoliosis?"</p><p>Draco pulled back, only enough to better see into Potter's eyes. He was smiling and Draco could feel him softly chuckling. "I- No. No, I'm just…." He frowned. "What?"</p><p>Potter's laughter now rumbled through his chest. With their close proximity, Draco felt it in his own, filling him with the very essence of life even as his heart pained a bit from the deflation of the moment. "Nothing. It just felt a moment there like I was getting a health check again. Like when they notice you're malnourished in primary school and put you through the ringer…."</p><p>"Right…." Draco nodded slowly and pulled back. He covered his face, momentarily startled to remember it wasn't his own. The bloke whose face he wore likely knew what Potter was talking about. Which made sense as Draco had very purposefully chosen to wear the face of a Muggle, knowing it was safer to remain anonymous while mingling in the wizarding world. He had fully intended to come across as approachable and <em>normal</em>. As someone who would understand those struggles of the day-to-day wizard. Whereas Draco himself hadn't attended primary school; his parents never would have entertained the idea of such a debasing thing for their son. Regardless, the man he was pretending to be should have known what Potter was talking about. Draco did not and it was starting to feel like the exact opposite of sexy. It was starting to feel like this encounter might sour if he wasn't careful. He let his hands fall to his sides. "Perhaps I had too much to drink," he started, quickly adding, "I'm only a little foggy, is all," in order to preserve the idea of his capability of consent.</p><p>"I was only teasing," Potter said through his implacable smile. "It felt nice, if a bit exposed. I shouldn't have said anything."</p><p>"Can we just…move to the bed?" Draco requested, knowing he was blushing. He wanted to move past this. He wanted to get down to it. He wanted as much as he could have until he was forced back into his own body again.</p><p>Potter leaned in and pressed a whisper-soft kiss to Draco's lips, sending tingles through every nerve ending across his shoulders. "Yes, if you can just give me a minute first?"</p><p>"Sure?"</p><p>"Great." Potter simultaneously used one hand to caress Draco's cheek and the other to push himself back and away. He scanned his room with hands on his hips, likely seeing the way it looked to his guest and finally finding it to be a bit embarrassing now that his head was clearer. "My house elf is almost too old to be useful anymore, so I gave him permission to leave this room as it is. Which means I really should keep better care of it, but it's almost beyond repair at this point. Sorry…." He kicked a path through the laundry and other strewn objects from the door to the bed, seemingly forgetting for a moment that he was indeed a wizard and could literally command those things to settle where they should.</p><p>Draco's fingers twitched at his side, itching to reach for the wand he had carefully left at home. Potter had carried that wand for a fair amount of time and would recognize it instantly. It was a risk he couldn't take, even if he was left defenseless and a bit naked by its absence.</p><p>Once Potter had ensured his fitted sheet now covered the edges of the mattress and the comforter was free of discarded items, he turned back to Draco and made a gesture akin to "<em>Tada!</em>". Seeing as Draco would have readily shagged Potter literally anywhere, he was sure it would do. He stepped along the forged path, pulling himself up onto the high bed with (he hoped) pure grace. This body was bulkier than his own and wasn't as used to careful, lithe gestures. Were he in his own skin, he would drape himself back across the pillows. He would poise himself in a gentle curve dripping with seduction. He would be irresistible, an invitation to be ravaged splayed across his silent lips.</p><p>But this was not his body. This body had never been trained to be so gentle and he would just have to make do. To offset the skills he lacked, Draco concentrated on loosening the buttons of his shirt. He at least knew how to undress someone with a body like this. All he had to do was manage it in reverse.</p><p>"Let me," Potter gently commanded, his weight upon the mattress pulling Draco closer to where he matched his position. His fingers pushed Draco's out of the way, taking over the task until the stranger's chest was bared before him. "I couldn't stop thinking about this," he said in between each kiss he pressed across Draco's sternum. "I couldn't stop thinking about what having more of you would feel like…."</p><p>"Me too," Draco admitted, the last syllable pitching into a moan at the end when Potter's lips travelled lower.</p><p>The last nearly six-hundred days had been an exercise in patience for Draco. Now that he had what he wanted before him, he was helpless but to fully give in to it. He couldn't bear to wait any longer. This body he was in responded to that perfectly. His trousers, purchased reluctantly and hurriedly secondhand, were suddenly and suffocatingly too tight. He needed more exposure to cool the flush covering every inch of him. He needed <em>more</em> and wasn't about to shy away from getting it.</p><p>Draco uncrossed his legs, lifting himself up on his knees just enough to be able to settle down upon one of Potter's. Pressing his need into Potter's hip, making it too obvious to ignore even through the layers of fabric. He could feel Potter smiling into the kisses he now pressed to Draco's lips. Potter allowed his hands to explore what those lips once tasted while he conquered every corner of Draco's mouth with his tongue.</p><p>"Merlin, <em>yes</em>," Draco breathed when Potter's fingers delved that much further. When they popped the button of his trousers and when one fingernail traced the ridges of the zipper's length. The soft vibration pulled a keening noise from Draco's throat, his arms going tighter around Potter's neck. His fingers grasping at Potter's unruly mess of hair. His fingernails biting moons into the constellation of freckles across the back of Potter's neck.</p><p>"I think we're entirely too clothed," Potter whispered into Draco's ear and like he was a pied piper, Draco responded with urgency to remedy this problem. He scrambled over Potter to reach the edge of the mattress, feet hitting the floor just long enough to shimmy out of his loafers, his trousers, his open shirt. And yes, finally, his pants. Potter was beside him doing the same thing, peeling every garment off with urgency and abandon. Gone was the time to worship every inch of one another's skin. They were too far in and too far gone to slow down.</p><p>Just as he was settling back onto the edge of the bed, Draco glimpsed himself in the dresser mirror across the room. The shock of someone else's nakedness meeting his eyes stole his breath. This man was soft where he was sharp, full of life and comfort. Full of everything Draco had been trained to see as weakness. He was beautiful from his soft, dark hair to the tips of his too-big big toes. Irrationally, Draco found himself jealous that Potter would have this man's body in the most carnal of ways while Draco would never really be able to connect those feelings he'd experience with his own flesh and blood.</p><p>"Where do you keep going?"</p><p>Potter stood in front of Draco in all his own naked glory. He was a different kind of breathtaking. Every inch of him was covered in olive-toned skin, marred by freckles and scars. He catalogued the location and shape of every single one — the notorious lightning bolt striking down his eye, words etched into the back of his hand, and what appeared to be healed puncture marks upon his forearm. Draco touched his own chest where the scars Potter had once inflicted upon him should be. Despite their physical absence, he still ached somewhere beneath the potion as the memory flashed through his mind.</p><p>"Derek?"</p><p>For half a second, Draco frowned at the foreign name before remembering himself. Potter was watching him with concern. Draco's mind kept wandering and he had no real way of telling how much time he was wasting in silence. He physically shook his head to clear it and forced a sly smile. "Aren't you going to fuck me?" he asked, hoping the shock of such a brusk question could set them back on track.</p><p>"I like a man who knows what he wants," Potter laughed after another moment of silence. He wasted no extra time with concern or questions, eagerly walking back to the edge of the bed. With one hand, he pushed Draco back into the mattress. The other was far more adventurous, grasping his manhood and coaxing it to full realisation. Draco could have wept. He had been touched by so many before, but this was the first time it felt so right.</p><p>And yet so wrong.</p><p><em>Just enjoy it</em>, Draco thought. He kicked his heel into the mattress, pushing further up onto the bed and dragging Potter with him by the fingers in his hair. <em>This is the only way you'll have him. Enjoy it while you can.</em></p><p>"I'm flexible," Potter stated, once again pulling Draco from his own head, "but I can't deny I'm desperate to be inside you. To see you writhe under me, mewling and literally gagging for it. Imagine how hot you'd be filled so full you can't even stand it. I mean…if you'll let me, that is." His own desire was plainly obvious, his cock pressing up against Draco's. He was just as fueled by this fantasy as Draco was, even if he wasn't fully aware of what that might mean.</p><p>Harry Potter was asking Draco Malfoy for permission to <em>fill </em>him. How could he ever deny that desire? "I would have thought the great and honorable Harry Potter always tops," Draco snorted.</p><p>"Sometimes us great and honorable folk like to be pampered bottoms, too," Potter laughed, leaning in for another breath-stealing kiss. "I take it since that's what you were expecting, though, you're on board?"</p><p>"I would be honored to bottom for you." Draco never knew there could be this much mirth and sweetness in sex. He could literally make camp in this moment for the rest of his life, coasting between happy and <em>so hard</em>. It was everything his dreams had been pushing for — a place to belong and someone to belong to.</p><p>"By Godric, no one has ever made me feel any more deserving of that luxury." Potter took his permission and ran full speed with it. He must have grabbed a bottle of lubricant while Draco was spacing out as he now held it in the hand not currently spreading a bead of pre-cum over Draco's hypersensitive tip. "Just let me know if I'm going too slow or if you need more time to adjust. I just need you to talk to me. Okay?"</p><p>Once Draco gave a blushing nod, Potter set himself to task. He abandoned his caressing of Draco's cock with a gentle kiss full of promise to the tip. Draco was helpless but to lie back upon the pillows, along for the ride in the only the best way possible.</p><p>He focused his eyes on the ceiling, tracing the crown moulding while he focused his breathing. Blindly and eagerly anticipating that first touch. He heard the click of the lubricant cap, the exhaustive blast of the bottle hitting a pocket of air, and Potter's nervous titter at the intrusive sound. He felt the cold gel before the pressure, his muscles unintentionally causing him to recoil. Potter waited a moment before trying again, spreading the lube over Draco's rim and warming it beneath his touch. Draco berated himself to relax, pulling his knees up to allow Potter easier access.</p><p>To his credit, Potter was a very attentive top. He worked Draco open like it was his damn job. His fingers were gentle and his pressure was spot on. It was like he knew what Draco's body needed even before Draco himself. Like he had studied everything about the way it reacted and unfolded just for him. He started by pushing one finger in, just up to the first knuckle, waiting until he could feel Draco begin to wind down before going any further. Every knuckle and every finger carried on just the same.</p><p>In the end, Potter confidently had Draco filled with three of his perfect fingers. He stretched them just enough to untense the ring of muscle. Just enough to leave Draco panting for more through the low level of pain. Draco had been in this very position many times, but it had always been with his own body. He knew the limitations that body could take and could handle. This one, however? This body had never been entered a day in its life. It needed more coaxing and more coddling. It needed every second of preparation it could be afforded.</p><p>Even if inside of that body Draco was ready and raring to go without such labour.</p><p>"I-I think I'm good," Draco finally muttered, the shake in his spine pooling into his voice. He was buzzing and didn't think he could handle another second without Potter truly and fully inside of him. "I think I'm ready."</p><p>Even without being able to see it, Draco knew Potter was grinning. His smile had a way of charging a room. "What position?" he asked gently, pulling out all but one finger. With that one, he continued to push in and out, back and forth. Keeping him pliable and mapping his cavity.</p><p>Draco desperately wanted to be able to look Potter in those impossibly green eyes, fists in his impossibly messy hair. He wanted to see every move the man made, watching every muscle in action. He wanted to be able to touch him and breathe him in. But he kept that to himself and merely shrugged, "suggesting" to stay where he was. "You know…since I'm already comfortable."</p><p>"Good," Potter answered and finally removed that last finger, leaving Draco feeling emptier than he could have ever rationally explained. In order to distract himself, Draco pushed up onto his elbows. He hungrily watched as Potter once again uncapped the lube, generously coating himself with his verdant eyes locked squarely onto Draco's. The intimacy in that look burned deep into Draco's core, setting even the darkest corners of him alight. Uncomfortable under its weight, Draco averted his eyes to Potter's cock and memorized what he had dreamed about for so long. Memorized its length (not too long, but nothing to be ashamed about), its girth (fuck, was he thick), and the slight curve it took on when at full attention (<em>that</em> was going to be his true undoing). He memorized the strangled color it took on and the exact way his bollocks wrinkled. He committed all of this to memory, all while knowing he'd have to obtain a Pensieve to be able to remember it as vividly as he ever hoped to.</p><p>"You wanna watch me stroke it all day, or should we get to it?" Potter asked, too full of mirth for Draco to be embarrassed caught staring.</p><p>"Just fuck me, Potter," he all but demanded. His instruction was met with a long, languid kiss and the prodding tip of Potter's cock at his entrance. There were no more words of discernable worth from that point. Nothing save for Draco's keening "Fuck" and Potter's grunt of satisfaction as he worked to seat himself within the man below. Once he was fully buried, Draco's hands desperately pulling him in by his arse cheeks (which were so plump, they were <em>begging</em> to be handled), he met Draco's eyes for the go-ahead.</p><p>Draco was hesitant to nod, only because he wished he could stay so full for the rest of his life. As cliché as it sounded, they were two puzzle pieces perfectly fitting together. Draco had an emptiness within him. It'd been there so long, he wasn't even sure if he knew what was missing or how to properly fill it now. This here, though? This fullness of Potter inside of him so deep? This was close. This was a substitution for whatever that missing piece might be and he could learn to live with it if given the chance.</p><p>Despite wanting to hold onto that feeling for as long as he could, he nodded and hitched his ankles up where his fingers were a moment previous. Arching up for a better angle. Knowing if he couldn't remain filled, at least he could let Potter try to hit him deeper.</p><p>Potter took his permission with the restraint one expects from a hero. He started soft. He pulled out slowly, like a measured breath inward, taking the pause to thread the fingers of his right hand with Draco's left. Squeezing as an outlet for the ache he was holding back for the sake of chivalry.</p><p>He re-entered in almost the exact opposite fashion, guided by Draco's own burning need. He used the balls of his feet to press Potter forward like a rushed breath out. Giving him the all-clear to go at whatever pace he wanted. Draco was just as ready to get on with it. He needed the rapidity and rougher thrusts, his own cock dripping a steady stream of excitement.</p><p>One staccato laugh burbled past Potter's lips alongside his enthusiastic response. He released Draco's fingers, knotting instead through the hair atop Draco's borrowed head. Tugging backwards to expose his neck where he resumed biting and suckling bruises into his skin. Coupled with the pleasure-stained pain, the sensation of Potter pulling back again and slamming into him was on the cusp of too much. Draco's toes curled and he struggled for a second to catch his breath. Even so, he did not hesitate a moment to use the first breath he could muster to beg for "Fuck, <em>more</em>!"</p><p>Potter responded with vigor, pumping in and out of Draco with the full strength of every muscle. He was a man on a mission, delighting in every moan he wrenched from Draco's throat. He was literally beaming, taking every second he could to press his lips or teeth into some yet untouched section of skin. He praised the arch of Draco's spine and his willingness to take whatever he was given. And, most importantly, he fucked like a goddamn champion. There was no future here where Draco was walking away unsatisfied for the night.</p><p>That dissatisfaction would surely settle in later once he was himself again, alone and pining.</p><p>"I'm close," Potter warned, all at once too soon and a sign of relief. "Can I do anything to help get you there, too?"</p><p>How was he so <em>good</em>? Draco panted, parched from his squeals and screams. He knew what he needed — he <em>needed</em> Potter to repeat his name over and over in the throes of passion. He needed this to end the way he had dreamt it. That was what he needed, but by no means what he was going to get. In lieu of his desired response, he croaked for Potter to just touch him.</p><p>Potter shifted so his left hand now cradled the back of Draco's head and his right was fully free. He pressed his middle and pointer fingers to Draco's bottom lip, willing him to open further. Draco greedily accepted the digits onto his tongue, laving them in all the moisture he could spare. "<em>Merlin</em>…that's a beautiful sight," Potter sighed and pushed his fingers in further, timing their rhythm with the slowed-down pace of his thrusts.</p><p>Smirking proudly, Draco angled his jaw so the points of his borrowed bottom canines scraped along the ridges of Potter's fingerprints. Draco felt the shiver run along the length of the man above him, fully proud of himself.</p><p>In complete juxtaposition to the slow way he was now milking out his own orgasm, Potter grasped Draco's cock almost harshly. He stroked him quick and hard, his pinky skimming his bollocks at purposeful intervals. It was clear in the hungry look in his eyes that he wanted this man to come suddenly and violently. He drank in every moan, every lip bite, every filthy word like it gave him life. His hips moved so soft and slow, his fingers squeezed so tight and rough.</p><p>They didn't have much time left. Draco realised this in the same moment he remembered his carelessly abandoned desire to know every inch of Potter. His hands had become so wrongly preoccupied with fisting any purchase of pillowcase or sheet within reach. He had wasted so much time merely submitting to the pleasure instead of actively dominating the body at his momentary disposal. And it wasn't like he exactly had much time to spare….</p><p>A flare of panic crippled Draco just as he felt the passion within him begin to crest, effectively wiping it away for the moment. He'd had plenty of orgasms, chasing them like they might be the answer to whatever his parents and the war had fucked up within him. He knew what it was like to reach a peak and then crash over the edge. This didn't feel like that. It didn't feel like anything he had ever experienced. It hit him like a freight train, square in the chest, knocking all thought of breath from his mind. He could have subsisted on this feeling alone for the rest of his life.</p><p>Somewhere behind the rush of blood in Draco's ears effectively drowning out the world, he could hear Potter crashing through his own orgasm. He hummed his satisfaction into Draco's collarbone, nipping at its curvature. He was mumbling things — sweet, delicate things. Things meant for <em>Derek</em> and not for Draco. Things which clearly stated "This didn't happen for you, Malfoy. It wasn't yours."</p><p>He closed his eyes, breaths coming shaky and shallow from both the tears welling behind his lids and the memory now ingrained in his mind. Potter left him empty, lying beside him but still entangled by breath and limb. He caressed Draco wherever he could, almost to the point of overstimulation, but Draco wasn't about to complain. He wasn't about to give up even a second of being so close.</p><p>It was this thought so heavily implanted on his mind which did Draco in. He could have still made a clean getaway. The small amount of Polyjuice Potion he had ingested was unknowingly more than enough to get him through the encounter and even buy him a little time for basking in the afterglow. He could have been so deliciously in the clear without even appearing to run away this time!</p><p>In the most devious of self-sabotages, Draco fell asleep under Potter's soothing ministrations. His borrowed body eventually melted away, leaving him dangerously recognisable in pale skin illuminated by moonlight.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Part Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry wished he could say he was one-hundred-percent certain from the beginning. He wouldn't feel so slimy if he had.</p><p>Even so, there was a certain level of comfort in watching Malfoy sleep. It was the only time he could admit he'd ever seen the man look relaxed in any measure of the word. His white-blond hair was longer than Harry had ever seen it, framing his face and nicely juxtaposing the dark brown of the sheets. If Harry were a man trained with a creative eye, he might have had the frame of mind to compare him to a work of art. Malfoy was beautiful enough to deserve to be described as such.</p><p>Even when he was almost literally flying out of bed in fear-laced panic.</p><p>"Morning," Harry chuckled, leaning back into the headboard and taking a calm sip from his mug. He'd found himself too nervous to sleep hours ago and was already dressed (if you could call a mismatched t-shirt and boxers "dressed") and a refill deep into his morning coffee.</p><p>Malfoy silently watched him for a minute too long, securely covering his more private areas with a blanket previously draped over the footboard. Harry could practically see the gears churning behind his caught expression. He was trying to piece everything together with only half the story, coming up predictably short.</p><p>In his wide silver eyes lay one question above all the others — Why?</p><p>"Let me know when you're ready to process an answer," Harry said, his calm demeanor a direct contradiction to literally all of Malfoy.</p><p>"You're not going to curse me?"</p><p>"No, so you may as well come back to bed."</p><p>Just the mention of such a preposterous idea threw Malfoy back into full disbelief. He scoffed, occupying himself with finding his clothes amongst the mess of the floor. "This room is <em>horrendous</em>," he exclaimed, likely scrabbling for some sense of control through the panic eating away inside of him. "What good is having a house-elf if you're not having him do a damn thing?"</p><p>Harry gently set his mug down upon the nightstand. "I told you — he's old. I could never free Kreacher, it's not what he wants, but I can try and make the rest of his life a little easier on him."</p><p>"How are you not surprised?!"</p><p>The illusion of Malfoy's restraint broke, fueled by his magic to crack the mug which had only a moment ago been cradled in Harry's hands. Searing hot coffee dripped through, pooling out onto the antique mahogany. For a moment, Harry allowed himself to gather his thoughts while watching the puddle grow. This wasn't going to be so simple to explain. He didn't even know where to start….</p><p>"If you sit down…I'll explain it all," Harry said gently, patting the stretch of mattress in front of him.</p><p>Malfoy did not take the spot indicated for him until he had replaced every bit of clothing shed the evening before. He looked ridiculous drowning in the shirt which had fit him so perfectly the night before. As he pulled himself back up onto the high bed, his trousers slipped down his hips, teasing a peek at the body which had been so adamantly denied to Harry. Malfoy compensated by tugging his too-long shirt down more and wrapping his stolen blanket around his shoulders. "Well, then?" he snapped. He was grumpy and it was downright adorable.</p><p>Harry wanted to start at the beginning, but he wasn't even sure where that might be anymore. Was it when he woke at age twelve with his pyjamas tented and Malfoy on his mind? Was it the Yule Ball when he couldn't keep his eye from wandering to Malfoy who dripped wealth in his dress robes? Was it sixth year when he nearly killed Malfoy because of his unhealthy obsession?</p><p>He was sure he at least knew it began two years ago. The war had just ended and since fighting was all Harry knew, he found himself lost in a world which suddenly wanted him to finally be happy and normal. He was still with Ginny back then, mostly because she was all he knew. She felt safe and comfortable. But she wasn't the one and he was glad she had been the one to realise it for him. He never would have let her go otherwise.</p><p>But even while he was still with Ginny and seemingly happy, something was off. He never would have cheated on her; she deserved so much better than to be betrayed. But he did dream, which was wildly out of his control but still felt like something wrong.</p><p>"I've found you gain a lot of perspective as you get older," Harry started, cheeks flushing at just the idea of what he was about to admit. "Like…I guess somewhere under all of the anger and sneers, there was always an obsession. For you, I mean. Which I know comes as no surprise. I did practically stalk you throughout our sixth year." He forced a sideways smile, gaze trained on his twisting hands. He hadn't realised just how nervous he really was to admit all of this until that moment. "But somewhere along the way, that obsession turned? Like when we were just kids, I had to know where you were and what you were doing because I undeniably had a hero complex and wanted everything and everyone to be safe.</p><p>"But then suddenly we were in an actual, physical war and all of that seemed petty. All that seemed to matter were the small moments adding up to good or bad. And in the end…I guess you came out heavier on the good side…."</p><p>Harry looked up just in time to see Malfoy's eyes flick to his left forearm. There was a Dark Mark beneath that sleeve, faded and almost like a scar, but still there. It would serve as a reminder of the choices he'd made — good and bad — for the rest of his life. "I vouched for you," Harry said gently, leaning forward to press his fingers under the cuff of that sleeve. He traced a raised edge of the tattoo. "I vouched for you because I wanted you to understand the way I saw you. That it had changed, I guess."</p><p>"Were you not capable of <em>saying</em> something <em>directly</em>?" Malfoy snapped and pulled away, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>"No, because I still didn't really understand at that point. It was only after you didn't take notice, after nothing changed following your trial and I returned home to my girlfriend like usual, that it really hit me. I wanted more from you, Malfoy." A shudder ran down Harry's spine, his memory too vividly showing him the "more" he had taken while Malfoy wasn't himself. "You honestly cannot even imagine how much I have dreamt of the way we were last night…."</p><p>"Yes, I can."</p><p>Harry raised his brow, looking Malfoy in the eye for the first time since he started to explain. "I was afraid of that."</p><p>For the first time that morning, Malfoy looked like the teenager he once was. His fingers curled into fists and a flash of danger glimmered in his eyes. "What does that mean?" he seethed through his teeth.</p><p>"I dreamed of you…of <em>us</em> for so many nights, Malfoy. It was like masochistic torture. I was desperate to stop it because at that time…I was happy and I thought Ginny and I were going to get married." Harry quickly breathed out. He wasn't making enough sense, not that this situation was dripping in rationality. "I just wanted them gone!"</p><p>"I fucking hate magic," Draco groaned and fell backwards onto the foot of the bed in the most dramatic of fashions.</p><p>For a moment, Harry smiled because it was in a way endearing. But it faded quickly as the full realisation of what must have happened hit him square in the chest. "To be fair…Luna's rituals rarely succeed. I just thought I would humour her and if something came of it…well, that would be a good bonus.</p><p>"But they weren't supposed to transfer, I swear! At least, that's not what I wanted. I just wanted the dreams to <em>stop</em>. But Luna said…sometimes full moon magic can be more potent than expected. So instead of, you know, <em>poof</em> then disappearing…somehow they travelled? I'm sorry I don't know how to explain it better and I didn't honestly believe her until last week. All I knew was that I wasn't plagued by dreams of you any longer."</p><p>"Plagued?" When Malfoy sat up, he looked weary even past the situation at hand or the muscle ache from their romp. The longer Harry assessed him, the worse off he appeared. There were bags beneath his eyes which couldn't possibly be fixed by just one night of sleep. Ill-fitting clothing aside, he wore his body like it was too heavy. And Harry had done this to him.</p><p>"That was the wrong wor—"</p><p>"<em>No</em>," Malfoy snapped, lying back again. "No, that's very much the right word, Potter, because you have indeed <em>plagued</em> me in my sleep for nearly six-hundred fucking days. This morning was the first time in close to two years that I haven't woken up to the harsh reality that I never had you. What we did…. It must have broken whatever spell Lovegood cast. Bravo for you and your magic <em>cock</em>, Potter."</p><p>Harry wanted to laugh, despite the inappropriate situation. It was honestly so ridiculous it was actually humorous at that point. He refrained, biting at the inside corner of his lips to keep from smiling. "Would it help if I said I was sorry?"</p><p>"No," Malfoy repeated, protest seeming to be his only logical response in the moment. "But keep explaining and maybe eventually it will."</p><p>This time, Harry did allow himself a soft, restrained smile. "I don't know if you have enough experience with Polyjuice Potion to know that it leaves traces of a person behind. Small things."</p><p>Harry could practically hear Malfoy counting the measurements of his breaths. He'd been taught to do the same thing to keep himself calm by his trauma coach after the war. "Did you know it was me every time?"</p><p>"That would depend on what you mean by <em>every </em>time?"</p><p>"I've been watching you for a while…. And I had to conceal who I was."</p><p>Malfoy's statement was simple and, in a way, it did make sense. He essentially hid behind a mask. It was where he felt comfortable. "I didn't know until last week," Harry admitted.</p><p>"And what, pray tell, gave me away?"</p><p>"Malfoy, I've stared at you enough over the years to know the way you walk and the specific venom you use to say my name." That and, Harry was less eager to admit, he just <em>knew</em>. He took one look at the man watching him across the bar that night and knew there was something familiar within him. He just couldn't particularly match it up to who he was reminded of until he had the man's cock down his throat. Until his name fell out of that mouth like a dirty swear.</p><p>A long pause stretched out where neither of them knew what to say. They both had to process what had happened and the new information shedding light upon those actions in different ways. And Harry was happy to give Malfoy whatever time he needed to do just that. He longed for a happy outcome here and wasn't likely to get it if he rushed for a reaction. Absently, Harry grabbed his wand andrepaired the cracks in his mug. He wiped the pool of coffee with a stray t-shirt, throwing it back onto the floor with a silent promise to himself to clean up later. His mess really was getting out of hand.</p><p>"So…." Harry looked up, expression eager, and found Malfoy watching him with his nose wrinkled in disgust. He cleared his throat before continuing. "So, last night? You knew I wasn't "Derek" the entire time?"</p><p>"When you introduced yourself to me last week you said your name was Sutton." Harry sighed and found himself grinning. "It was a fake name if I ever heard one. Derek was far more believable. But, yes, last night I was pretty sure I would wake up next to <em>you </em>in the morning."</p><p>"Pretty sure? How sure?"</p><p>"Sure enough." Cautiously, Harry pushed forward onto his hands and knees and crawled to meet Malfoy at the foot of the bed. "I meant every word I said to you last night," he whispered, caging Malfoy in beneath him. He was close enough to see errant flecks of blue in those silvery eyes. Close enough to feel his breath. Close enough to lean in and kiss him again. "Even the ones I might not have said."</p><p>Malfoy licked his lips and breathily asked, "Like?"</p><p>"Like…." Harry grinned devilishly, slowly rutting his body downwards. Their hips just barely met for only a brief moment, but it was enough to pull a low keen from Malfoy's throat. "Like I would give anything for it to happen again. Like your body is pure magic. Like…like I might love you, Draco…."</p><p>Harry had been testing Malfoy's name, his <em>first</em> name, out on his tongue for the better part of two years. Always in private. Every time he spoke it, it brought a rush of color to his ears. It felt forbidden, in a way, and the high that gave him was intoxicating. Even now, watching Malfoy's eyes go lust-blown just at the sound of it, it was still the best feeling in the world. He hoped every time he spoke it from then onward (because how could he keep from shouting it from mountaintops now that he had been heard?), Malfoy's reaction would be the same as it was on this mind-fuck of a morning.</p><p>"Well, Potter…aren't you going to fuck me?"</p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This work is part of the <a href="/series/1677472">Seven Shades of Sin anthology</a>, a series of Drarry fics exploring the seven deadly sins.</p><p>There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2emrdGIthVVBwflHmUO4Yo?si=_dQ6V1ITQH-abE_5ChF3lw">here on Spotify</a>; seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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